


Let It Go

by fourfreedoms



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M, Massage, Unintentional Masochism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could be said that Nate is going to the trainer for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amberlynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberlynne/gifts).



Nate's supposedly at the trainer's because his hamstring injury from last season has been acting up. That's why they sent him the first time. However, the last time he went to the trainer's because he was _supposed_ to was when Blankfeld sprained his ankle running hurdles and it took two players, Nate and Andrews, to peel him up off the ground and get him inside the sports complex. Needless to say, his hamstring is fine. Or fine enough that he doesn’t need any physio. His coach has no idea he’s here.

Brad's got him sitting up on the edge of the exam bed, neck arched while his tongue pushes forcefully into Nate’s mouth. Nate breathes harshly through his nose and clings to the table with a white-knuckled grip. To be fair, Brad's hand is on Nate's thigh, kneading and shoving at the muscle, thumb digging so far in Nate feels like his kneecap is going to explode from referred pain. Brad tempers the hot agony by kissing down over his throat and thumbing soothingly at the base of his skull with his other hand.

His grip loosens on Nate's thigh and he leans back. Nate groans, limbs trembling, lower lip savagely bitten. If he tried to stand now he wouldn't trust his legs.

"One more time," Brad says, catching his chin and laying another kiss on him as his hand tightens again on Nate's thigh, this time to the side and over his femoris. Nate jerks and groans into Brad's mouth, and Brad pulls away, suddenly, to look down at his hand spread wide over Nate's pale thigh, the leg of his nylon running shorts pushed all the way up to his hip.

"Hmm, this looks like a previously undiscovered area of trouble."

He runs his thumb down it with almost all his strength behind it and Nate has to put a fist into his mouth to stop from crying out.

"One more time," Brad says softly. He noses along Nate's cheek in a surprise show of tenderness.

Nate squeezes his eyes shut. "That's what you said last time."

"And I'm going to keep saying it until I feel this muscle let go."

*

When Nate first went to see Brad it was because his old hamstring injury had gotten completely out of control. It wasn’t healing and it was wrecking Nate’s q-time. His coach was at his wit’s end, because while Nate was never going to be an Olympic runner, he certainly won the team enough first places.

He’d been expecting some beefy bald man, because that's what the last trainer looked like, but he almost dropped his water bottle when Brad came out and called Nate by name. According to Misty, his assistant, he was a former NCAA power forward who had a career-ending knee injury in his freshman year, and devoted himself to sports therapy as a way to get through it. Nate didn’t get it. If he couldn’t run, he didn’t want to be anywhere near other athletes.

Brad was barely older than him. He had these really even gray eyes that seemed to just stare through walls. He was exactly Nate's type.

Nate had prayed the entire session that he wouldn't spring inappropriate wood while Brad had him splayed out on the table, lying between his thighs or pulling his legs over his neck. It turned out to be so painful that Nate needn't have worried. The only thing that got him through it was reminding himself once it was over, he’d never have to do it again.

"You're standing all wrong, Fick," Brad explained. "You're favoring the old injury, which is causing your muscles to shorten in the opposite leg." He shook his head in mild reproof. "Now show me you're not just a pretty face with a low mile time, because I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you this. Stand evenly on both feet, never put your weight on one leg if you can help it, and if your schedule has room, be back in a week."

Nate had limped out, but only hours later, had to admit his leg felt better. The dull ache wasn’t running all the way down to his shins while he was trying to sleep for the first time in a long time. When he did his stretches the next day during warm up, it only twinged when he pushed it. He grudgingly signed up with Misty for another appointment.

The next time, Brad talked to him the whole way through about mundane and easily-answered subjects--the music Nate liked, the last concert he'd been to, what teams he rooted for--all the while lying down on the table with Nate, pushing Nate's thigh back to his chest with the front of his shoulder.

Nate had nearly cried that session it had hurt so much, but he'd signed up for another one because he wanted to keep running. It was his entire life and he was willing to deal with the gorgeous viking torture god to meet that goal.

Nate realized Brad upped the ante every session, pushing a little harder to see exactly when Nate would break. He was amazed every time he walked out that his legs weren't bruised black and blue from the force Brad used. Certainly he felt black and blue, but his skin was pristine except for the occasional ding he accrued himself through training.

He kept going back. He was a masochist. Or he wished he was a masochist, because then it would be endurable.

And then came the week where Brad was trying to get the muscles down the side of his leg to loosen up by pinning his left knee to his opposite shoulder. Nate had thought he could take it, but before his knee was halfway there his palms had come down hard on top of the table and he'd pushed back.

"I can't do it, Brad, I can't," he said, feeling dangerously like he was going to snap his leg out of his hip socket. It felt like his entire leg and back were protesting desperately. Brad was positioned over him, face almost directly above Nate's.

"You can do this, princess," he said, "you're perfectly fine."

Nate had pressed his cheek to the table. "I can't."

"Look at me," Brad had ordered.

Nate had been trained his entire life to respond to that tone of voice. Coaches, parents, professors. He met Brad's eyes and shuddered, swallowing desperately and trying to think of anything other than how much his muscles felt like they would snap from the force. With Brad's weight bearing down on him, and his gaze that never wavered, Nate's knee made it all the way down.

"Oh shit, oh shit," he said, breath coming out in a whoosh. It was a little like the first time he got fucked and the fat head of the cock stretching him open finally pushed inside. A concentrated surge of pain that finally gave way.

Brad let him up with fond eyes. "You did good."

Nate groaned and let his leg drop back to the table. "I'm never moving again."

"You have to," Brad said, swatting him with a towel. "My 3:15 is here."

"Vile sadist," Nate replied, arm over his eyes. He groaned and finally rolled himself to the ground. He walked out on unsteady feet.

The week after that Brad brought him in to work on the back of his leg. Nate saw it as a kind of reward, because his muscles in the back of his thigh weren't tangled up in nearly so many knots. For once it felt good. Not good pain or torment that gave way to blissful orgasmic numbness, but like a relaxing massage.

"Apparently even you figured out how to squat properly."

"What?"

"So many times I get you in here, and if you were moving your body like you were supposed to, you would not have half the problems you have."

Nate snorted. "Maybe I just come for your invigorating pep talks."

Brad swatted him across the butt and stood up. "Get out of here. We're done for the day."

The thing was, even though Brad put his body through hell every week and made him curse his own mother, he realized he looked forward to the sessions. Because Brad was funny and hot and when he touched Nate without the intentional infliction of massive amounts of pain, Nate felt like a light bulb that had finally been turned on. And he felt horrible, because Brad was probably straight and he spent his entire day getting paid to touch people in all kinds of compromising positions, and it couldn't possible mean anything.

But of course after a meet and then a weekend spent hiking and walking all over the place, Nate found he'd royally fucked his leg up again. Brad had rolled his eyes as he felt the solid rock that was now under the skin of Nate's left thigh.

"You're a complete mess," Brad said. "Do you even use the roller I gave you?"

"Yes, only it hurts like hell and doesn't yell at me not to pussy out the way you do."

"I don't yell," Brad pointed out.

"When you're right in my face telling me that you know an entire troupe of girl scouts who could sit through this without blinking, it's kind of like yelling."

"Whatever gets you through it." Brad grinned.

But that week it was particularly bad. Nate found himself making strangled noises in the back of his throat, trying not to writhe on the table while Brad looked down in what Nate hoped was empathy and not complete and utter despair, or worse, annoyance, at how difficult Nate was finding this.

"Nn...ah...ah," Nate's exhales sounded like he'd been punched, his hands were so tight on the edges of the table he couldn't feel his fingertips.

"Relax," Brad had told him. "You're so tense that you're making it worse."

"Can't," Nate had said weakly, knowing tears were beading at the corners of his eyes.

Brad had eased up a little then, palm coming down over Nate's heart. Nate blinked up at him, eyelids fluttering.

"C'mon, princess," and the way he’d said it felt like an endearment rather than a goad. "You can run marathons. You don't think your body can do this?"

"No," Nate had croaked, mostly out of spite.

Brad dipped downwards. "Don't fight me so much," he said and his mouth ghosted over Nate's.

Nate had moaned into it, a shudder going down his spine, and leaned up improbably to catch Brad's mouth in his. Brad abandoned his thigh with one last squeeze to cup the back of Nate’s neck.

“Off, off,” Nate said, tearing his mouth away.

“Hmm?” Brad asked, eyelids fluttering.

“Your clothes,” Nate replied furiously, shoving at the hem of Brad’s t-shirt.

Brad chuckled like he was thinking of trading it for some more pain in the name of gain, but he drew it off without protest, letting Nate drag him down onto the table. He couldn't stop touching him now that he was finally allowed, learning the long planes of Brad's back and the layers of solid muscle, grinding his dick up against Brad's washboard stomach, tightening his thighs around his narrow hips.

"Oh god, oh god," he repeated over and over as Brad bit down into the meat of Nate's shoulder, where he happened to know was another huge knot. His clever fingers dragged the band of Nate’s shorts down, just enough to pull his cock out. There was a hot rush of pre-come and Nate blushed, but forgot it entirely when Brad unzipped his pants.

Brad thrust them both together, dicks sliding between their bellies. Nate grabbed the back of his neck and hung on for the ride.

They came seconds apart, with Nate shooting so hard his eyes rolled back into his head. Brad stilled against him, dropping his forehead to Nate's collarbone. "That was not...what I had intended," he said slowly.

Nate shifted weakly beneath him and then gave up.

"I want...I would like...I..." words failed him.

Brad smiled against his chest. He’d felt it rather than seen it. "Coffee some time?"

And that was how Nate officially became the most injured player in the entire athletic department. At least, on paper.


End file.
